


alive in both worlds at once

by kissmeinnewyork



Series: flickers of the vault era [2]
Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, ITS OBVIOUS, Romance, Unconditional Love, he just loves her so much, more twissy baths
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-22
Updated: 2017-08-22
Packaged: 2018-12-18 18:21:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11880174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kissmeinnewyork/pseuds/kissmeinnewyork
Summary: She's been there since the beginning and she'll be there at the end. It's the only thing the Doctor has ever been sure of. [the vault is a plethora of confessions. twelve/missy].





	alive in both worlds at once

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jemima_Puddleduck](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jemima_Puddleduck/gifts).



> This fic is dedicated to my lovely friend Freya, who wanted a scone fic but hers was just too good I didn't want to even try and write my own. I hope this is a good enough alternative. Enjoy, and please comment if you have the chance! :)

It kind of becomes a routine, and it’s only when he’s in deep that actually realises. On her dark days—which are most of them, now, the hysteria and guilt weighing down her soul—he sits at the side of the bath, his fingers tightening round her curls and the smell of roses in the steam. She’s mostly silent, the rushing of water from the tap the only thing breaking the atmosphere. She even cries silently. He can’t differentiate tears from condensation, but the way her blue eyes glisten kind of gives the game away.

His fingers tug at her hair slowly, gently; the shampoo is one that Nardole picked up at _Boots_ in a panic but it’s nice, he reasons, all flowery and soft, although he assumes Missy’s got more expensive tastes. He’d stumbled across her at a boutique in seventeenth century France, once, trying on approximately fifty different hats. If she has, she doesn’t mention it, however. She’s too distracted looking at her toes through the bubbles.

“Can you…” she says, voice croaky and unused. He pauses. Waits for her to answer. She ends up shaking her head. “No, doesn’t matter.”

He frowns, fingers gently massaging her scalp. “What is it?”

Missy covers her face, wipes shampoo from her eyes. She looks up at the ceiling and the chandelier that hangs in the middle of it, four tiny pinpricks of light casting odd shadows across the walls. He’d thought she’d appreciate the decadent glamour of it, she’s always loved the medieval—but like a lot of things, it escapes her notice. “It’s silly. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter.”

The Doctor picks up the shower, hanging loosely across the taps at the top of the bath. Tests the temperature on his hand until it’s hot, almost scalding, the flesh turning mottled red. “Is this hot enough? And no, it’s not silly. Really. I think we’re passed that now.”

She shudders when the water hits her back, but nods. “Fine. Okay. I was just wondering—you could get me some nail polish. I’ve not looked at them in a while and honestly, it’s depressing me. Maybe more than the whole hysterical existential crisis thing I’ve got going on.”

He laughs a little. That—well, that sounds more like the Missy he knows. “Nail polish?”

“Yeah. I assume you know what it is.” She pauses for a moment. The water washes the suds out of her hair, white foam floating up to the top of the bath. She pokes a cloud with her middle finger. “Although—when was the last time you were a woman?”

“I’m not sure,” he murmurs honestly, “But I do know what it _is,_ Missy. Maybe you could paint mine too.”

Missy laughs and it’s the first one he’s heard from her in _weeks_ that isn’t out of bitterness. A wry smile tugs at his lips, his hand straying the skin at the back of her neck, smooth and unblemished. She’s so beautiful this time, so utterly stunning—it’s borderline infuriating when she looks at him with those sharp eyes and ridiculous cheekbones, simply ethereal. He’s never been moved by conventional notions of beauty, preferring wit and kindness over a composition of features, but her beauty is anything but conventional. It’s… well, it’s _everything._

“Maybe I could, yeah,” she sniffs, her arm curving round to grip at his fingers, “Although I’m so bloody shaky you’d have it half way up your arm.”

“I don’t mind. Might convince Nardole I’ve finally got a tattoo.”

“A tattoo?” Missy says, “Is this another one of your attempts to be like the Corsair? Seriously, it was clear you fancied him. Everyone knew it.”

He huffs. Pulls the shower across and deliberately splashes her in the face, her eyes jamming shut with a gasp. She reaches out to snatch the showerhead off him but he’s too quick, switching it off before she has the chance. He throws her a towel. “The only man-crush I ever had on Gallifrey was _you,_ and you know that.”

Missy scrubs her face and pushes her hair out of her eyes. Water still clings to her eyelashes but she blinks it away. The Doctor passes her another towel and she knots up her waves, grips onto his forearms as he helps her from the tub to the tiled floor. “Yeah, I know that. You’ve never been very good at hiding your emotions.”

“Missy, I was trapped in my own confession dial for over four billion years because I wouldn’t share my emotions. I almost went _mad_ because I’m so bad at dealing with them.”

“My dear Doctor,” Missy says, wrapping another towel round her body, “I think that may be a testament to just how emotional you really are.”

He hums, sitting next to her on the side of the bath. “Perhaps.”

“I’m not judging you. I mean—I’m hardly an advocate for emotional stability, never have been.”

“Yeah, well that wasn’t your fault,” the Doctor says. He reaches out for her hand, clutches it in his own. Her fingers are all wrinkled and pruney. “Gallifrey didn’t really care all that much about that sort of thing.”

“You don’t need to tell me that. I think—if you’ve been at the heart of the Time War, you can only really be one of two things. Mad,” she looks down at his fingers, the ring he wears, “Or dead.”

It’s not an unfair statement. In fact, it’s probably one of the most accurate and true sentiments that have ever escaped her mouth, the most brutally honest. His hearts have never been the same since, his head crammed full of images of war and blood and sacrifice. This underlying, throbbing pain; the agony he feels every single day for the friends and family he watched suffer and die will never truly go away. But then he glances at her—after all this time, over two thousand years, here she is. His Koschei. The one who was here first and the one who will be here to the end, and maybe that’s the only thing he’s ever been sure of.

He presses a messy, chaste kiss to the skin of her shoulderblade, his lips coming away wet from steam. She smiles, her hand reaching out to touch his face, his skin rough beneath the pads of her fingers. Maybe she heard him. She’s always been better at telepathy than him—at the Academy she’d always be snooping in on his thoughts, not that he’s ever been careful enough to keep them hidden. It’s been so long it’s difficult to keep his guard up.

“I’m glad—I’m _happy,_ that we’re mad rather than dead,” she says, softly, her hand skimming down his neck to his chest. Hover over his hearts. “Although if you ever die I’ll _probably_ end up spiralling into an intense bout of insanity and killing a lot of people, so you better not do that. I’ll have no-one to stop me.”

The Doctor chuckles. “As long as you promise not to die too.”

“I’m not planning on,” Missy murmurs, “I feel like shit, and death seems like quite a positive destination right now, but—I’m willing to believe there may be light at the end of this tedious tunnel.”

He blinks. Takes her in. Doesn’t know what the hell he’s done to deserve this second chance with the only person he’s ever been able to compare himself to. “That’s… that’s good.”

They both stare up at the ceiling and the chandelier flickers, the light dimming. He clutches her hand until she starts shivering and has to find some clothes and dry herself properly. It’s not such a bad routine, he thinks. It’s not so bad being able to look after her. It’s more preferable than the alternative. Always more preferable.


End file.
